


Luck Be A Leopar- Uh. Cheetah.

by SaharaSquared



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, First Dates, Gay Bar, Grindr, I WANT TO TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR GAY BAR GAY BAR, M/M, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaharaSquared/pseuds/SaharaSquared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going on a limb, Clawhauser gets a little more out of his blind date than he expected. About 4 feet more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luck Be A Leopar- Uh. Cheetah.

**Author's Note:**

> This story contain drinks and drinking, including drinking to moderate intoxication. Borders "Teen" to "Adult" rating.
> 
> Written from a challenge to include the line,  “Your lips make me wonder what the rest of you would taste like…” [chosen from this list](http://saharasquared.tumblr.com/post/141414255550/suggestive-sentence-starters). Anon asked for this line in particular [here.](http://saharasquared.tumblr.com/post/141543713480/your-lips-make-me-wonder-what-the-rest-of-you)

Ben didn’t have luck with dates. But this wasn’t a date.

 _Howlr isn’t a date, right?_ he reasoned.

It offered “BLIND > drinks and a pawshake,” which was encouraging - Clawhausers weren’t horn dogs. Well, that’s what he told himself. It’d been a long time since he had a man, so maybe the pawshake could be at second base.

He’d pressed OKAY between drinks one and two, so … second base? Third? He was never great at math.

Tucking a cream ascot, he looked over the other regulars. So many ripped men of all stripes and spots! They looked raw even in clean cream spats and dickies. Patting at his round belly, he felt uncooked.

Maybe after Downton Abbey ended Queer Beer Thursdays would be back, including the nachos. Maybe it’d feel a little more like “his” bar.

A tray of beer nuts kept filling. Tracy, a stunted brown bear with one good eye, always did that sort of thing for Ben. The muscle crowd kept getting bigger (in more ways than one), but this had been his haunt since coming to the city. Circuit boys and “Summertime Sadness” came and went, but the regulars hung their hat on “their average guy.”

It had its perks. The lager came with a free whiskey back every time. They used his first name - even when the nametag was on. He was Gentle Ben. That got a lot of laughs in a bear bar.

Tracy gave a wave and a nod. Ben returned them shakily. Somehow the Ursa always knew when a date was imminent. Maybe Tracy was just nice because the suit looked a little less “Burbury” and more “Elvira’s Movie Macabre.” It was a double-vision in crushed purple and pleats.

Re-linking his cuff for the umpteenth time, it dawned on him. This wasn’t a themed blind date, just a _blind_ date. God, the lights were way up to show off the costumes! He was 200 pounds of grape Kool-Aid! It was time to bail.

Pulling an emergency hand pie he began banging on the phone. _Sorry, I forgot it’s a theme night here, I’ve gotta bail. Better luck next match : (((._

The pie was “King Cake, Reconsidered” - the crust was so-so, but the sweet cream was a knockout. He bit through an extra-large hunk of sprinkle in lockstep with pressing ‘send.’

A familiar ‘ding’ rang out in the bar. _Oh, no._

He turned to the source. Everyone else had too.

Slowly padding - no, gliding - toward him was eight feet of thick Tiger. Muscles out-muscled muscles under a black longshoreman’s sweater and dress pants, straining to dam a river of sex appeal. The bar became a cologne ad the moment he arrived. He didn’t need period dress to get in; his wardrobe was in vogue by default.

His tangerine coat was deliciously clean. Delicate black stripes cut around high cheekbones and kissed a lantern jaw. Intelligence danced in amber eyes as they flicked away from a phone.

The mystery man loped effortlessly onto the next stool. The man was massive, at least double Ben’s height and wider at the shoulders than Ben at the hips. He leaned on the bar and teased, “So you’re AngelHorn90?”

“Benjamin Clawhauser, ZPD,” the cheetah blurted reflexively. He winced hard. “And … uh- yes.”

“So a man in unifor- costume!” Mister Mystery cheered.

“Look, you can bail,” Ben lowed, shuffling his feet on the bannister, “This was just silly. Just wanted to try Howlr, and forgot all this ... uh. I feel like Britney mid-’09.”

“Oh, it's not as bad as that!” The Tiger laughed, “A drink with a man in a cape sounds fun.”

Ben flapped the velvet number dramatically. “Really? I flipped a coin while getting dressed and it came up tails, so I ignored it. Pricey little dickens, too!”

The stranger chuckled. Maybe a little anxiously.

“Speaking of money, it’s my treat, ” Ben offered, “they make great boiler-makers.”

“Actually someone told me about something called a Ginger Grizzly-” Mister Mystery was interrupted by a wet thud.

Four large Ginger Grizzlies sloshed at their elbows, served by a dumbstruck Tracy.  Ben’s nose burned from three feet off. The bear leveled, “Here, enjoy. Especially you, Mister …?”

“Thanks. Jack Denning,” the Tiger nodded, taking a hard quaff. Ben tried not to stare at the broad, flat tongue darting into his date’s drink. Oh, yes, it was a date now.

Ben took a chance on the drink too. Ice cold ginger and cinnamon burned all the way down. He didn’t sputter, though he did stop drinking two fingers in.

“Man,” he coughed, feeling a flush, “that’s some rough stuff!”

Jack had finished his glass entirely, lapping at the foam. He sighed wetly, “Mmm, but I needed that.”

“I guess!” Ben didn’t chide. Sometimes you just needed to eat the whole box of cookies. “Long day?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack gravelled through an exhausted smile, “double rehearsals. A big outdoor show’s coming up. The main singer wants practice with festival equipment and the screens, get used to the open air. It’s a good idea, but the space back in Los Pegasus is booked, so we’re working in a makeshift area. It’s smack next to this ShrubWay. I can smell falafel all day! We’re hungry all morning but craft services can’t find the place until three, then we do it all again, then the bus breaks down …”

Jack spoke with wide, strong paws churning the air. The smaller cat nodded slowly. This all sounded awfully familiar.

“You were at the lot off Denning Avenue in the Canyons,” Ben gasped, “The one with all the tents and vans. They say it’s super-secret on ZMT! Your name _isn’t_ Jack Denning, is it?”

The Tiger’s yellow eyes widened. “Uh - well - the manager told us all-”

“You’re touring with a big name, you need a cover,” Ben shushed, bolting down his excitement, “You get in a little trouble and the gossip rags are all over it, right?” _I read most of them_ , he did not add. That was not something you said to an entertainer.

“I’m sorry,” The orange hulk sagged. One white thumb the rode the rim of an empty glass. “Tried to pick out a cool one, but it was this or “McSwain”. My first name _is_ Jack, though.”

The little rumble in in his voice prodded parts of Ben, the ones that shouted “Hallelujah!” when Behind the Scenes pulled a tight-closeup on Dancer #3. He held in an urge to run an paw down one shoulder. Really anything to stroke a thick, firm, hot tiger … arm.

He caught a whiff of cologne. A cracked-pepper musk. Ben squealed inside,  _Good Lord, he’s well-seasoned, too._

"Oh, well, _Jack_ ,” Ben sympathized, patting Jack’s nearest elbow. “It sounds like you had a long day.”

“Yeah,” the broad orange wall crumbled, “Look,I'm sorry. I'll drink this last one and go to the hotel."

Ordinarily Benjamin Clawhauser would pay for the nice man’s drinks, give a paw-shake (the regular kind) and call it a night. Jack was dead tired, Ben wasn’t that interesting even foiled in purple. _Ordinarily_ , though, Ben didn’t get drinks with 25 stone of beautiful man. If he wanted to keep this going, he’d need to do break the mold.

He wracked his brain.  _“What would Tony Stark do?” – if Iron Animal were gay, pear-shaped, and a cheetah. I’m tipsy, so that’s a start. Hmm. Start. And a finish? Maybe …_

“Race you,” the cheetah dared.

The Tiger’s stare took in the cheetah’s physique. He puzzled, "To the hotel?"  
  
Ben raised a full glass suggestively.

“You didn’t finish your first one!” Jack balked, “And you’re half my size! There’s no way!”

“You get a head start, then.” Ben scooted his partial glass into Jack’s paw.

Jack roared with laughter. They took their marks, counted to three, and began to chug. Ben fought through the cinnamon burn, pretending it was just a box of Tic-Tacs. 1-2-3 and the drink was gone. Jack trailed behind.

The spicy war crime took its toll. He felt distinctly warm and cozy as Jack slapped the table in consternation, laughing like Hell. He decided to stay.

The spent the next hour nursing the same last Ginger Grizzly, “racing to the bottom.” They talked about working late - who knew radio dispatchers and entertainers liked the same AM-PM burrito? Jack told a great story about a sound tech ripping apart a vending machine for a Zagnut bar. He rocked with laughter at Ben’s _Dance with Gazelle_ video, but not unkindly. He had a habit of flubbing jokes in an "aw, shucks" way. They both got so excited about Lady Gaga's latest music video, though Jack didn't think her leather jacket was real. It wasn’t the Dark Ages.  
  
It was friendly, maybe getting places ... but for an exciteable Cheetah, not fast enough. Ben’s paws ached; he just wanted to run over that taut chest and scratch through the soft belly-fur under the sweater. It wouldn’t even be hard now. Jack leaned in and down to see the app and never pulled back. The man loomed, heat and that peppery cologne rolling off him.

The orange dynamo came no closer than half an arm length and didn't lay a finger on Ben, but both ears were up. All cats knew that swivel. Jack he was studying, planning. Was it interest? We’re-having-fun interest, or …?

Ben's hands were grabby, but his feet were longing for a soak. His brain too. Maybe he could get a phone number and call it a night. He flourished his wristwatch and hemmed, “Ah, jeez, it’s late. I’m on radio duty early. Someone’s moving a house down Meadows Highway.”

“Yeah,” Jack commiserated, “We’re doing some surprise press thing at 10. I have to get up at five.”

Yellow spotted fingers waved at Tracy for the bill. From the back room the bear shook his head furiously and pointed at the hunk of Tiger. He mouthed, “KISS HIM.” The line cook and an assistant bartender looked on too. Their gestures were more lewd.

Ben shook his head violently in response, but the black bear just kept pointing. He chuckled nervously, “Sorry, the bartender won’t give us a check until we …”

“… Until we kiss?” the Tiger squeaked. Jack’s expression was faint and a little wobbly. Maybe he really wasn't good at romance.  
  
Ben's nod triggered a slow orange and Gucci avalanche. In a four-foot yellow panic, he shot out both paws to avoid knocking heads. He'd seen faints before, and Large Animal Handling training. With any luck they’d avoid anything involving crushing or head wounds –

But the avalanche stopped. Ben found snow-shoe paws take the slope from his belly to love handles. Two thick thumbs kneaded into the plush middle. Both cheetah paws in the mix barely half-circled Jack's forearms. From an inch away, Jack’s expression wasn’t shock. The Tiger stammered, “Can we?”

“Yes,” whimpered Ben, all reservation breaking under the tiny jumps in Jack's fingers. He felt helpless? Captive. He was a ball of string Jack could unspool.

White-furred chins and black thin lips met. It didn’t last forever - just a quick peck. The next was longer, upper and lower lips rolling. The third was infinite; there was ginger and some sort of chewing tobacco. For a moment, life was a confusion of breath, warmth, and a swaddling grip around his middle. So help him, he whimpered.

Then it broke. (A tray of plates did in the back room too.) Jack jumbled, “I’m sorry I just- you really are my type and I'm not _good_ at this I just  _look like_ I'm good at this-”

“Ssh, I said yes,” Ben hushed, “and you're good at it.”

Relief tempered Jack's face. There was still warmth. Need. Ben felt the same; No lavender salt foot-baths in the world could make this rising heat go away. His paws were getting _shaken_ , darn it.

“Besides,” the cheetah throated, tapping Jack's chin, “Your lips make me wonder what the rest of you would taste like.”

They left in a hurry to find out, then took their sweet time. A Clawhauser didn’t kiss and tell but he could now reckon how a bunny and a rabbit might work. You know, mechanically. Being a little spoon worked in silver or plastic, after all, and big hands were big hands.

Clawhauser the cop left a luxury suite in the Palms at 4AM feeling like a Sugar Daddy -  thoroughly licked. He had to rush home to get the uniform and had to skip the shower.  He reported for duty reeking of ginger. That moving house careened down the highway just fine under his guidance, logbook filling with pit stops and turns at the box junction outside of town. Thank heaven for small mercies. The smell thickened through the day, magnified by coffee sweats. 

“What’s that cologne?”, Officer McHorn sniffed, “Ginger Woods?”  
  
“Just some soda,” Clawhauser (and it _was_ Clawhauser on the beat) hand-waved. McHorn shrugged. It wasn’t bad, just classic Clawhauser.

* * *

 

Ben returned to the bar a week later to square up the check, only to find there wasn’t any. Tracy would only point to a Polaroid taped to the cash register labelled “Ben and Beau xoxo.” It captured Jack’s “bad side” (Jack insisted his existed) and Ben’s double chin, but it had charm. It was just taken just after that first kiss. He saw drool.

“Well, Benji,” Tracy grunted, “Your first one-night'er. How’s it feel?”

“Oh, jeez!" Ben frowned, "What kind of boy do you think I am? We’ve had a date.”

The bear only popped an eyebrow.

"The kind with clothes," Ben groused, "for goodness' sakes."

“YO, DUKEY,” the bartender bellowed, running to the stock room, “YOU’RE OUT FIFTY BUCKS!”

Ignoring a spirited discussion about what was and wasn't "joking around" with a bet, Ben's eyes lingering on the Polaroid. He hadn’t smiled like that in years, his cheek-lines so far apart. Maybe this was a hot streak, maybe it’d be a cold case. Life was worth hanging luck on sometimes.  
  
His phone buzzed. Ben swiped open the message and forgot how to breathe.  
  
The selfie caught a famous face smile cheek-to-cheek with Jack’s grin. It caught Jack’s “bad side." The woman _didn’t have one._  Even with all the hair curlers and horns just out of frame, her smile was unmistakeable. She looked like Jack ruined a joke but in just the right way. It was captioned: _She agrees, you’re adorable. TTYL._

His phone buzzed again. Another message:  _PS that’s Gazelle ;)_

Tracy returned to find him still staring at the screen. Normally seeing "Gentle Ben"'s mouth overtaking animals at high speed, the midget bear sidled around the bar in concern. He peeked past one elbow expecting a death in the family and gasped.  
  
“Boy,” Tracy roared happily, ripping off his trucker’s hat and beating Ben's arm, “did you blow a leprechaun who won the lottery?!”

"No," Ben mumbled, pinching himself, “Just Jack.”


End file.
